


place (is where your feet are)

by quillquiver



Series: finding home [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Environmentalist Castiel, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hypothermia, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pacific Northwest, Pre-Romance, Pre-Slash, Selkie Castiel (Supernatural), but make it SPN, like a meet-cute with bedsharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillquiver/pseuds/quillquiver
Summary: Dean’s trying not to care that his Dad sent him all the way to fucking Canada for something that isn't really their kinda thing. But the more it goes, the more tight-lipped the locals get, and the more Dean starts to think that there’s a whole lot more to what happened than what everyone’s saying. Plus, the dude who built his cabin on some beach in the middle of nowhere? Definitely hiding something.Now Dean just has to figure out what.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester
Series: finding home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971817
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	place (is where your feet are)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is gonna be part of a series I'm writing called Finding Home - it's all outlined, and will probably be in four parts: place, people, trust, hearth. There will be romance, smut and fluff on the beach in the next parts, but this is like... a SPN meet-cute in a super slow burn.

Wet.

That’s the only way to describe the past twenty-four hours. It had been non-stop rain since he’d left Oregon and drove directly up the coast, clouds hanging low as he passed into Washington. Calm for a bit around Seattle, but by the time he’d gotten onto the ferry— _enjoy Canada, Mr. Page_ —it had gone from the kind of pussyfooting mist-rain that makes the pacific northwest so goddamn unbearable, to something more suited to a Kansas thunderstorm. The wind’d picked up, the ferry bucked like a damn bronco, and the shitty gas n’sip jerky and grilled cheese he’d had for lunch ended up in an empty slurpee cup.

He’d puked three more times before they docked.

From there, it’d been another three hours until he’d pulled into a town tiny too tiny for anything bigger than a bed and breakfast. At nine at night, even their gas station had been closed. So, Dean had parked in the only public lot in town and had hunkered down for the night.

His girl is a disgusting combination of car funk and wet dog when he wakes.

Condensation makes it impossible to see through the windows, but it doesn’t look like it matters; seems just as grey as it was yesterday, and probably will be until the end of March.

Fuck the pacific northwest.

Still, the rain seems to have let up a little, so Dean takes the opportunity to wipe down his windows with some old napkins, crack ‘em, and then sets off for the nearest B&B. He gets a room at the cheapest place in town, which ain’t cheap by any regular standards, but apparently, he’s the only guest.

“Off-season,” the little old lady who shows him to his room says. “You know how it is.”

Dean wonders who the fuck can afford to come here during the summer if they wanna charge him seventy-five for a single _during off-season_ , but whatever. He ain’t planning on being here long enough to find out. Hell, if he can help it, he’ll rule out this case as one for the _actual authorities_ and be on his way back south by tomorrow night.

“So, there are soaps and shampoos in the washroom, and I can have breakfast ready downstairs in around fifteen. Do you need anything else?”

Dean bites his lip. “Um, yeah. Is there a library in town?”

“A small one, but you’d need to drive to Victoria if you wanted anything substantial. Are you a student?”

“Ah, no ma’am. I’m here for work.”

The lady frowns, and Dean braces himself. The owners of tiny B&Bs like this are always nosey as fuck. “American?”

“Originally. Moved up here from Kansas about three years ago. I live in Vancouver now.”

“That sounds like a big change. How do you like it?”

“Love it,” Dean says, turning up the charm. He wants a shower and a meal and to get off his damn feet. “The whole… um, socialized medicine thing we got goin’ here? I’m real thankful for it.”

“I’m glad,” the lady smiles. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, my name’s Mildred.”

“Thanks, Mildred.”

It takes a little while to clean up Baby’s insides and get himself settled—the walls are painted too nice for pins and twine, and Mildred seems too damn meddlesome for any salt or devil’s traps anyway—but the breakfast’s good and the coffee’s better, so Dean allows himself a couple moments of quiet and relaxation before he has to start his day.

“So, what kind of work do you do, David?”

Dean looks at Mildred over his mug, a little disappointed to find she’s pulling out the chair opposite him with her plate piled high with eggs. So much for those couple minutes.

“Detective work,” he says. “I’m, uh, RCMP.”

The words feel a little foreign on his tongue, and the frown he gets in return has him quickly trying to build his story: here for the death of Richard Roman, just dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s, sent up to get everybody’s statement. He’ll be gone in a couple days. Not staying. Totally routine.

“I didn’t realize they’d send a Mountie for an animal attack.”

Something in her tone is a little off, but there are no major red flags so Dean shrugs. “Mr. Roman was an important man,” he says, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. “I’m just here to follow up on the local police; second round of statements, taking a quick look at the site and the body… I’ll be outta here in a couple days.”

Mildred nods. “Must be a tough job,” she says. She’s overly casual in a way Dean doesn’t like. “You ever work up near Prince George? Any Highway cases?”

Dean’s answer lives on a knife’s edge, but from the way Mildred stares at him and waits and keeps her questions clipped, he can’t figure out the best way to respond. Steeling himself, Dean deliberately puts down his cutlery and gives his very best shy, disarming smile. “…Never,” he says. “But I might; I just go where they tell me.”

It’s not the right answer, not if Mildred’s tight body language is any clue; but it’s also probably not the worst thing he could’ve said. The lady of the house gives him a tight smile and a nod, and excuses herself with less than half her plate finished. She gets up and goes for the phone.

Dean looks down at his plate and sighs.

***

Roughly eight months ago, Roman Enterprises made a deal with the British Columbian government to clear cut an entire island on the Clayoquot Sound. The contract stipulated that cutting was to be done in phases to allow cedar replanting. As soon as the public became aware, the protests started... and they didn’t end until about two weeks ago, when Dick Roman died visiting the site.

Though official records indicated an animal attack—best guess was a sea lion according to the very _very_ confused coroner—John Winchester hadn’t been convinced. So, he’d given his firstborn a fake passport and badge, and gone radio silent.

It wasn’t a surprise; after Sam fucked off to become a real boy in California, Dad’s pretty much been MIA barring marching orders.

Dean taps at the reception desk and purses his lips, rolling his tense shoulders. He wishes it would just fuckin’ rain and be done with it. He wishes he wasn’t banished to a whole other country on a wild goose chase. He wishes his dad would just let him _help_ —Dean’s sick of losing people to demons. He leans back as a woman with short, dark hair comes up to the desk, a thin file tucked under her arm. “Hi there, you must be the Mountie.”

“That’s me,” he smiles. Flashes his badge. “David Page.”

“Captain Jody Mills. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

She seems to be sizing him up, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary for local law enforcement. He lets her look her fill and follows as she gives him a quick nod and leads him into her office. The precinct is fucking tiny, but not the smallest he’s seen; they probably see their fair share of drunk and disorderlies during high season.

“So, you’re here to investigate the death of Richard Roman.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Mills,” he says. “I’m sure your team did a fantastic job. I’m really just here as an admin thing; gotta cross our i’s, dot our t’s… you know how it is. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

Captain Mills considers this. “I appreciate that,” she says slowly. “I guess I’m just a little confused. We’ve never had the RCMP come up for an animal attack.”

Dean nods. “Mr. Roman was an important man, and the protest against his logging operation made him a potential target—”

“Which my team and I deemed a regrettable animal attack. The case is open and shut.”

“I’m not arguing with you, Captain,” Dean assures her. “My superiors just want to double-check. And they clearly don’t think they’re going to find anything different; I’m one person, just sent to do the paperwork, and the sooner I can see the site and do my interviews, the faster I can put your town in my rearview.”

While it’s clear she still doesn’t trust him, Captain Jody Mills lets him look over the coroner’s report and see the body. Richard Roman is an ugly sonofabitch, and he’s been torn apart; arm and legs broken, the latter shredded and covered in bite marks. There’s nothing anywhere else, which is weird, and none of the bites look like anything he’s ever seen. He asks after the location of the library and options for local transport to get him to the site, but the whole case is looking like a dead end; hopefully, he’ll catch the last ferry out and put this godawful place behind him.

Whoever said Canadians were friendly has never been to fuckin’ Tofino.

The lifers are cold, but no different than some of the other small towns Dean’s been unfortunate-enough to visit; small town people are insular by nature, and the fact that this place is apparently crawling with tourists during the summer only means that these year-rounders are even more suspicious of outsiders. They tolerate him, and that’s a generous descriptor. If that body had looked like anything but an animal attack, he might even think the whole place was hiding something—but it looks like a large sea mammal mauled some asshole to death, and from the slim-pickings at the station, there’s no history of this kinda thing going back even a hundred years.

Dean figures he’ll talk to all the protestors, see the site, and then be on his merry fuckin’ way.

He grabs a sandwich from the town’s only grocery store and follows Captain Mills as she leads him down to a tiny little shop called _The Whale Centre_. It’s right across from the marina, and looks a helluva lot nicer inside than out; all bright lighting and light wood and novelty t-shirts and mugs. A redhead sits at the small desk in front and the smile freezes on her face. “Uh… hey, Jody. What’s up?”

Captain Mills gives her own tight smile. “Charlie, this is David Page. He’s with the RCMP. You have anyone to show him Roman’s old site?”

Charlie nods, carefully not meeting Dean’s eyes. Her hands shuffle papers on the desk. “Yeah, Jesse’s finishing up maintenance on one of the boats and then he can take him out.”

“Great. Well, I’ve gotta get back to work.” Captain Mills looks meaningfully at Charlie. “Let me know how it goes?”

“Yep.”

Dean does a slow walk around the store, looking through the punny keychains and towels before he stops at the desk. Charlie’s cute: bright red hair, brown eyes. There’s a kinda nerdy vibe about her that Dean doesn’t normally go for, but what the hell, right? He grins boyishly, looking up through his lashes in a way he’s been reliably informed drives women crazy.

Charlie frowns. “Uh… hi?”

“Hi,” Dean says. Forearms on the table, leaning down. “Charlie, right?”

Charlie’s eyes narrow. “…Yeah. And you’re David?”

“Yep, that’s me. You weren’t one of the protestors? I think I’d remember a face like yours from the report.”

She snorts and covertly turns the computer screen away, spinning in her chair to face him. Dean’s smile doesn’t waver. “Unless foam swords are involved, I’m not really a ‘get out into nature’ kinda girl.”

“No? Seems like there’s nothin’ much else to do around here.”

“Right…” Charlie trails off. “Uh, sorry—David, right? Fresh from the death star? This is probably a stupid question, but are you _hitting_ on me?” The way she says it tells Dean she knows exactly what he’s doing, so he settles in. Bites his lip. Shrugs. “Depends,” he says. “Is it working?”

Charlie’s eyes widen. “Oh my _god_ ,” she mutters. “Jesus. Sorry, no dude has ever actually blatantly hit on me before; they usually smell my gayness a mile away.”

Ah, fuck.

“...I mean, I am _gay._ One-woman pride parade, right here. Biggest lesbian in town. I give off a _vibe_.”

Dean’s face is on fire. He thinks. Maybe. He honestly can’t feel anything from his hair down so it’s a little tough to tell. “Right. Yeah. Um, I’ll just—” He stumbles back, almost knocking down a rack of t-shirts before clearing his throat. “I’ll wait—uh—”

Charlie grins at him, less like she pities him, more like… a shark. “Aw, c’mon, David-from-the-death-star… don’t be offended!” She calls to his back. “You’re cute, in a ‘sleeping with the enemy’ kinda way!”

“Hey, you David?”

Dean stops mid-turn, forcing himself to look at the guy right outside the door and not bolt past him. “Uh, yeah man, that’s me.”

“Jesse Cuevas.”

Jesse Cuevas doesn’t smile and he doesn’t shake hands. He is a big, bald, plaid-wearing dude with a goatee and a bad attitude, and he stalks towards the marina and just expects Dean to follow. He’s particular about his boat, he talks low and angry when he talks at all, and he wears his suspicion on his sleeve. Probably gets his _eau de paranoid bastard_ from the same place Bobby does.

Dean likes him.

“So, were you involved in the protest at all?” Dean asks.

Jesse shrugs. “Would run supplies to them. The protest happened on a float we built overnight. It blocked the dock, and everyone lived on it in shifts; most were Ahousaht, so I’d ferry those folks back to the reserve, bring everyone food, water… shit like that.”

“Ever bring ‘em any weapons?” Dean teases.

Jesse doesn’t answer. Dean watches the line of his shoulders tighten.

Huh.

“I mean, I wouldn’t blame you,” he continues. “Roman Enterprises was gonna clear cut a whole island.”

“Roman Enterprises,” Jesse says. “Was gonna clear cut the entire Sound. That first deal? That was only the beginning. They don’t care about anything but money—people’s lives are just collateral damage.”

“So, you all hurt them back.”

“An animal hurt them,” Jesse corrects. “Because Roman stepped in a bucket of fish guts and smelled like dinner.” Jesse turns, then, looking Dean dead in the eye. “You wanna know what’s going on here? You go back to the RCMP and ask them to investigate Roman Enterprises. Richard Roman sprayed those people with water cannons and gave them burns. He tried to starve them out. If you ask me, you’re lookin’ in the wrong place.”

It’s an honest enough answer that Dean thinks he can buy it. Site’s clean, too.

Jesse hightails it back across the Sound, muttering about damned winter weather as the wind picks up and the water gets rough. It means a lot less talking, but that suits Dean just fine. It’s nice to just… watch the scenery. What he can see through the mist and the clouds looks pretty, he thinks begrudgingly. A little wild for his tastes, but nothing to spit at. The beaches are clean and empty and parts of the forest come right up to the water, reaching over boulders like they wanna jump in the drink. An otter pops up about ten yards from them before immediately diving back down. 

And a small, run-down house is tucked into the foliage in the middle of nowhere.

Dean frowns. “Hey Jesse, whose place is that?”

They’re coming up on it fast, and Dean can see a boat almost identical to the one he’s on resting on the beach. The clouds are low—rolling down to touch the sand—but Dean can kind of make out a figure walking along the surf.

“Cas,” Jesse says.

Cas turns to look as they zip past, waves crashing violently at his feet. The surf must spray him from head to toe, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it, even totally clothed. He just turns, a blue shadow in the mist, and stares. Bulky, waist-length coat. Cargo shorts.

“And what does Cas do?”

“Tour guide like me,” Jesse says. The water’s getting a little rough, but he guides them through expertly. Sighs. Looks at Dean, considering. Sighs again. “Quiet guy,” he eventually shares. “Keeps to himself. He walks the beach and makes jewelry out of the trash he finds; sells it at Pam’s.”

“Was he at the protest?”

“No.”

“Seems kinda strange, don’t you think?” Dean presses. “Guy like that who combs the beach, missing such a big demonstration? It was practically in his backyard.”

“Cas doesn’t do violence,” Jesse says, tone brooking no room for argument. “He wasn’t there because he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Wasn’t it supposed to be a peaceful protest?”

“All due respect, but if the pipeline taught settlers like me anything, it’s that the government doesn’t care about peaceful.”

Dean hums, turning back to look at the beach. Cas is a slowly shrinking dot. Sure, it’s a little weird that the guy lives so close to the site. That his place is on its own island. That he needs to boat a good forty minutes to get to town. That he likes getting soaked by the freezing fucking ocean. But Dean’s been around; he’s seen weirder. Mostly in monsters, but humans are fucking terrifying. He’ll finish up and be on his way tonight. A gust of wind blows through his wet jacket and Dean hisses. Christ, how fucking cold does it get out here?

***

The rain turns into a storm; the wind howls, water comes down in sheets, the ocean pitches and roils.

It’s too dangerous to drive through the pass.

Dean decides to get spectacularly drunk.

It’s a mix of frustration at his situation and the desire to let loose—maybe pick up someone local and have a good time in that big, empty B&B. By the time Dean’s pushing open the door to the only open joint in town, he’s close to being soaked through. “Hey, uh, gimme whatever’s on tap? Cheapest shit you got.”

Dad’s leather jacket is as wet as it’s ever been. He’ll be pissed about that. Sighing, Dean nods to the bartender as he’s slid a pint, picking up the glass and pressing it immediately to his lips. It tastes good; a little fruity, maybe, but a damn sight better than the piss he’s used to. As he slides it back, he looks around, surveying what his options are.

There aren’t many: a couple girls in a corner, a dude sitting alone and playing with his phone. He’s probably the cutest one in the joint, but Dean’s not sure how they are about that kinda thing up here. He’d heard it’s legal, but even with the out lesbian who works for the tour company—Charlie? Charlie—he knows it’s different with girls; all the old, drunk fisherman slapping each other on the back and calling each other pussies don’t seem like they’d look too kindly on a couple guys making out. And, well… since Salem, Dean’s trying to be good about keeping the whole liking dick thing locked in the closet where it fucking belongs. The bartender hands him another beer. He pauses. Dark hair, dark eyes—he’ll bite. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He winks, and she rolls her eyes. Dean wonders if it’s him or that he’s RCMP and then decides it doesn’t friggin’ matter. He viciously knocks back his drink.

He is so ready to be out of this motherfucking town.

Dean’s on beer number five, cute guy in the corner looking like a more and more viable option as the minutes pass, when the door opens, bringing all the cold air with it. Dean hisses, about to turn and give whatever asshole just walked in a piece of his fuckin’ mind, but the words die in his throat.

Cas.

At least, he thinks it’s Cas. The guy. The beach guy. Cas. He’s wearing the same coat, but he’s changed to jeans, which seems… ill-advised? With the weather. Especially ‘cause he’s fuckin’ _soaked._ Though the coat apparently keeps him nice and dry ‘cause when he undoes the toggles, the thin white shirt underneath is _pristine_. But hey, it’s Canada, right? Crazy fuckers up here. Dean heard they swim in the ocean on the first of the goddamn year.

The dude who may or may not be Cas—but is probably Cas—slides a little awkwardly onto a stool a ways away, smiling kindly at the bartender. Dean doesn’t know if he should be distracted by his crocs or his little grin. Maybe his hands. He’s cute; cuter than phone-guy in the corner, and Dean figures he needs a couple more before he’s feeling reckless enough to push his luck again. Could be fun, though; getting fucked by a mountain-man recluse. Could be fun _fucking_ a mountain-man recluse. Would he keep the crocs on?

“Hey, Cas. Your usual?”

“Please.”

 _Deep voice._ Dean chokes on his mouthful of beer, coughing most of it back up into his glass. Nobody pays him any attention, which ain’t exactly newsworthy in this place. Most people seem hell-bent on pretending he doesn’t exist. Which is, y’know, fine by Dean. Dean’s gonna finish his beer and then finish a few more, and when he’s suitably drunk he’s gonna take the recluse to his room and find out what’s under that furry coat of his.

Cas awkwardly raises a glass to the bartender and she smiles at him, the thing dropping from her face when Dean calls her over for another. “You okay there, Mr. Page? Need some water?” She sounds like she’d sooner drown him in his glass.

“Nah, m’good,” he says. “Just, ah… keep ‘em comin’, huh?”

He gets his beer and raises his glass, too, this time leaning over the empty stools to give a sloppy grin to Cas-the-recluse-mountain-man. “Hey,” he says. “To you, buddy. M'—”

Dean has been hunting since he was very young. He has spent the past twenty-two years of his life living out of his father’s car, wearing his father’s hand-me-downs, and feeding his brother because of the hunt. The hunt is everything. It’s paramount. And because hunting sings through the blood in his veins, when Dean Winchester locks eyes with Cas-who-wears-crocs, it doesn’t matter how drunk he is.

The hair on his arms stands on-end. Something tingles in the back of his skull. And to the trained observer, there is nothing— _nothing_ —normal about the blue eyes staring back at him.

Dean sways back, swallowing thickly as he frowns, trying to think clearly— _fuck fuck stupid goddamn idiot dumbass fuck fuck **fuck**_ —

Ain’t no way Cas-the-pacifist is actually a pacifist, because Cas ain’t human.

“Are you… alright?”

He’s peering at Dean like he’s concerned, which, yeah, could be real good if this was all an act. If he even knew what kinda hippy-dippy inhuman _freak_ he was dealing with—play the drunk damsel, get him alone, gank him—but Dean’s pretty sure walking a straight line is impossible, right now, so that ain’t gonna work. He needs a cold shower and a library, but mostly, he needs to _get his shit together._ He slides onto the stool right beside Cas and grins obnoxiously. Changing tacks. He can do that. This is still salvageable. “This seat taken?”

Cas watches him carefully. “Now it is.” His voice is measured, and Dean shudders at what the hell would’ve happened if he’d gone back to his dad without having solved this one. What Dad would’ve said. Would’ve _done_. How many more people would be dead because this asshole thinks he can just do whatever the fuck he wants, and Dean was too stupid to see it.

Dean asks for a glass of water. Cas watches him like a fuckin’ hawk.

“So… you’re Cas, huh? The guy who lives in the middle of nowhere?”

Cas stares. Dean pastes on his most charming smile, the one that gets him a free slice of pie. He offers his hand like this is a totally regular thing to do and he’s not more than halfway to plastered. “I’m David.”

Cas looks down at the hand but doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t seem disgusted, but he doesn’t seem scared, neither. Mostly, he looks cautious. Careful. Everything about him is careful. Dean briefly wonders if the dorky getup is to make him seem less intimidating and threatening. Probably.

Dean lowers his hand awkwardly. “O… kay.”

“You’re investigating the death of that businessman?”

“Yeah.” What kind of monster has a bite like an animal? Would silver work? Would iron? Fuck, he shoulda taken this more seriously. Fucking _moron._ “Why? You know anything?”

Cas looks at the the liquid in his glass—Tom Collins, because all monsters have shitty taste in alcohol—but the bartender comes up before he can answer.

“Hey Cas, this guy bothering you?”

He gives Dean a once over, really looking at him, before clearly deciding he’s not worth the effort. With a forced kind of smile, he shakes his head. “No, but thank you, Tracy. I’m headed home anyway. Can you keep my tab? Wallet’s at home.”

“Sure thing.”

He turns to Dean. “The death was an accident,” he says simply. “That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

He limps—(limps?)—out of the bar.

Dean throws some of that damn monopoly money on the table and recklessly follows him out into the rain. _Fuck_ , it’s miserable. “You said accident,” Dean calls to his back. “Not animal attack.”

Cas stops. “They’re the same thing, aren’t they?”

“Not really. Plus, s’kinda suspicious that you live so close though, huh?” Dean presses.

“I suppose that depends on your definition of close.”

“Closer than anyone else.”

Cas sighs. “Am I under arrest, David?”

“No, but—”

“Then I’d appreciate not being stalked. Goodnight.”

He turns the corner and disappears.

“Shit fuck motherfucking _fuck_.”

So much for getting out of here.

***

The Tofino library smells like old books and fish, and it’s about three times too small to be actually useful. All the books about mythology are about the Greeks and Romans and Egyptians, the Internet is fucking slow, and the librarian hovers. “You sure you don’t need any help, compadre?” Garth asks. He’s been by every two hours like clockwork. Dean’s seriously considering the benefits of throwing himself off the goddamn roof.

“Nope, all good, man.”

Dean isn’t—he’s not crazy about the thrill of finally finding a paper trail, or the challenge of figuring out a case with nothing to go on. Dean likes the research-heavy cases when he’s got the _resources_ , so bullshit towns like this are the bane of his entire existence.

It’s gotta be some kinda water monster, clearly motivated to protect the islands and willing to kill to do it. Histories of the area aren’t hard to come by, but they’re tough to decipher; between skirmishes between the Native nations and then the white folks coming in and taking over, who the fuck knows which mythological asshat has decided to stick around. And it ain’t like there’s any real information about the legends and myths of these Nations, anyway; _oral tradition_ , all the books keep saying. Which is just, y’know… awesome. ‘Specially when he can’t even go and ask the folks who’d know without a friggin’ boat taxi.

Dean hates Canada, and he hates Tofino.

He wracks his brain until lunch, at which point he decides to grab a sandwich and make his way back to The Whale Centre. The hostility that greets him at the grocery store shouldn’t be surprising, but the teenager who scans his shitty sub glares like she’s being paid for it. Dean wonders if the whole town isn’t just full of creepy crawlies. Maybe he should torch the whole thing.

Which probably wouldn’t even work based on the amount of rain they get, here. The storm from last night carried over into this morning, and it’s only just starting to calm by the time Dean gets to the Centre. His feet squish uncomfortably in his dress shoes as he steps over the threshold.

“Hey there, Charlie.”

Charlie, when she finally looks up from her computer, gives him the fakest customer service smile he’s ever seen. And he’s seen some doozies.

“Uh…” he continues. “I was just wondering if Cas could take me out on the boat? I’d like another look at that site.”

“That site,” she repeats.

“Yeah. Y’know, where the… murder happened.”

“Allegedly.”

“Allegedly,” Dean says tightly. “’Course.”

Charlies considers him for a second that seems to stretch into an hour, finally giving a shake of her head. “Sorry,” she says while sounding totally unapologetic. “We’re grounded today because of the storm.”

Fuck. “Well, is he here?”

“No,” Charlie repeats slowly. She draws the word out, nice and slow and like Dean is a moron. “He’s at home, cause of the storm.”

“Right.” Dean forces a smile. His nails dig into the palms of his fists. “Cas is across the Sound, right? Ramshackle place right on the beach?”

“Y’know, I also heard he was coming down with something,” she says, totally ignoring his question. “Might not be in for the rest of the week.”

Dean wonders if smashing her computer will get him answers. He forcibly restrains himself. “Cool,” he mutters. Gives another, wider smile. “Then, uh, how about someone to take me to the… um, Ahousaht nation? Their whole… area.”

“We’re grounded,” Charlie repeats, unimpressed.

“Tomorrow?”

“You got gifts?”

Dean frowns. “What?”

“Tabacco, fish, sage… you need to bring gifts if you’re gonna visit. I’m assuming you wanna interrogate innocent people?”

“ _Interview_ —”

“Because you’ll need permission for that, from the Chief. And he’ll probably have to talk to his advisors, so I wouldn’t expect an answer until like… next week. At the earliest.”

Dean’s fake smile turns into a grimace. Fuckin’ fine. “Uh… great. Well, uh. Thanks for the info.”

“No problem.”

The bell above the door gives a cheery jingle as he leaves, and Dean clenches his jaw damn near hard enough to break his teeth. He’s been on some tough cases. He’s been tossed around, dealt with prickly local police, uncooperative family members, the works. He’s spent days in townie libraries to find a footnote in some weird, seemingly unrelated text. Usually, it’s either uncooperative people or a research binge, but apparently this is the Jughead of shit sandwich hunts.

Nothing adds up and nobody’s cooperating, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s because everyone is a suspect or these people just hate law enforcement. Plus, the weather’s just—Dean grimaces at his water-logged shoes. The weather blows. This case blows. Everything fuckin’ _blows_.

And he’d rather eat his own arm than hole himself back up in that stupid library.

Petulantly, Dean takes off in the opposite direction of town, heading past the summer cabins and year-round residences until the pavement gives way to gravel and the rain comes down in buckets again. Soaked to the bone, he reaches the end of the main road and stares at the tiny path that disappears into the treeline. He thinks about Sammy before he can stop himself; pictures his awkward, sloping gait in a forest that looked exactly like this one, his dumb floppy hair swinging every which way as he extolled the virtues of hiking without hunting— _seriously, Dean, studies have shown that just spending thirty minutes outside_ —

Dean drags a hand over his face. Tries to quell the homesickness.

He follows the path.

***

He ends up at a series of tidepools, where the ocean crashes against big rocks enough to spray his face. He doesn’t know what he was hoping for.

The library is just as disappointing when he goes back to it.

***

“Hey, can I get a slice of, uh…” Dean frowns at the mish-mosh of a menu board. After last night at Mildred’s, he’s sticking to restaurants for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t want to accuse her of burning his meal on purpose…

But she totally did.

“…Any day now, princess.”

Dean’s glare is immediate, directed like a laser beam at the woman on the other side of the counter. A smirk hides in the corner of her mouth. Her brows raise expectantly. “So?” she wheedles. “You gonna order or you just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty?”

“Meat lovers,” Dean grits out.

“Congratulations,” she deadpans. “There also a size in that little noggin’ of yours? Or do I have to guess?”

“I dunno, you always such a bitch to paying customers?”

The smirk widens, and the women leans her forearms on the counter. The name _Meg_ is pinned to her bright red _Tony’s Pizza_ t-shirt. “One large meat lovers coming right up.”

“I didn’t —”

“The stink of your wounded man pride told me all I needed to know, dollface.”

Dean orders two mediums just to be an asshole.

***

Cas is back in town.

Dean knows this because he sees him at the marina at ass o’clock in morning, tying up his boat casual as anything. Dean thinks, maybe, that this is finally the break he’s been waiting for; sure, it isn’t _smart_ to approach a monster (mostly) unarmed, but he’ll probably live through a conversation in broad daylight. Probably being the operative word.

Dean’s changed course—is heading down to the dock—when Captain Mills, herself, stops him. “Got those contracts you wanted to look over, Officer. And the deeds to the land.”

It’s a no-brainer to look at those, first.

***

“Hey, Charlie, I’d like a few minutes with Cas.”

Where Dean had had trouble getting anyone to say two words to him yesterday, it’s like they won’t shut up, today; Jody kept him busy for most of the day with reports and contracts and files, and the second he tried to get outta there and catch Cas on his lunchbreak, three more people came in with statements. The way they’d coordinated was infuriating, but there wasn’t much Dean could do but take down their bullshit in the hopes that one of them would eventually give him something useful.

It’s late afternoon, now, and Charlie shrugs. “Sorry, he’s not here.”

Dean has to actively calm himself. He takes a deep breath. Holds still. Tries to keep his eye from twitching.

“His shift is done,” she continues, throwing him a bone. “Reduced hours for the winter; he went home.”

Dean is gonna throw himself into the drink.

***

“Well, look who’s back. Two medium meat lovers, Ken doll?”

“Bite me, Meg.”

***

It’s like everybody and his mother has a question or a lead, but they’re all dead ends because of course they are; day two of this whole play nice routine, and it’s become increasingly clear that it’s just a way to keep Dean away from the only real lead he has. It takes a faked stomachache in the middle of the precinct and climbing out the tiny bathroom’s window to get people off his back.

Determined, he stalks up to the Charlie’s desk at approximately twelve-oh-one and gives _his_ Customer Service Best™. “Where’s Cas.” It’s a statement and not a question, made a little less intimidating by the fact that he’s perpetually damp, but Charlie barely looks away from her screen.

“Not here.”

For the millionth time, Dean wonders what would happen if he threw that nice, shiny computer to the ground. “Okay, where is he?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“He’s the key suspect in a _federal investigation_ —”

“He’s under no obligation to be available to you; you haven’t spoken to him, you haven’t arrested him, and if I suspect an employee is in danger I am well within my rights to keep his location from you, even if you are RCMP.”

“What are you, his lawyer?”

“No,” she replies. “But I don’t think he’ll need one. I’d like to see your ID card.”

“On what grounds?”

“That I’m a Canadian citizen and am asking for your ID card,” Charlie says. “I’d like to see it.”

Dean’s perfected this part; the quick flash of a fake badge, long enough to see that it’s real and quick enough that it’ll look legit even to the untrained observer. He expects to get nailed for it—most people hell-bent on seeing a piece of ID like to make a stink about _looking_ which Dean has to then distract them from… but Charlie lets it go with a hum and a _yeah, that’s what I thought_.

Dean needs to solve this case and he’s gotta do it fast.

“If you hinder this investigation again, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice,” he warns. “I’m going to get lunch and then I’ll be back. If I find out you helped him leave again, I _will_ have Captain Mills arrest you.”

Dean walks up to Tony’s and gets himself a slice of meat lovers.

Or he would, if Meg got off her ass to actually serve him.

“Look, it’s one slice of pizza. I need—”

“I’m on a _break_ , hot fuzz.”

She takes a long drag of her cigarette, grinning when Dean slams down a handful of coins on the counter and reaches over it to grab his own food. “Thanks for nothing,” he growls.

“Always happy to be of service.”

“You know where Cas is?”

She snorts. “Why? You wanna give him a friendship bracelet?”

Yeah, whatever. Dean rolls his eyes and walks away. He’s so busy cursing this case and this town and everyone in it, that he doesn’t realize he’s reached the end of the walking path from yesterday until his newly dried shoes squelch in patch of deep mud. It’s up to his ankle. He pulls up his foot and the shoe stays in the ground and Dean seriously hates this place. _Hates it_ , and—

Dean frowns into the fog, barely feeling the cold of the earth seep through his sock when he steadies himself. There’s a person there—walking down among the tide pools alone, fading in and out of the spray of the surf.

Cas.

Dean creeps forward, watching through the dense treeline as Cas expertly avoids the worst of the waves, weaving across the rocks. It’s spitting rain like it always seems to be in this place, the clouds hanging low and misty over the trees and spilling onto the sand. Cas, apparently totally undisturbed by the wind and the rain and the cold, wet air looks around and sighs so big his shoulders almost touch his ears. His thick, bulky coat is on, pooling around his biceps. He’s bare underneath, and Dean doesn’t know how he isn’t freezing with his bare feet and cargo shorts, especially when he sits down in one of the tidepools, wetting up to the small of his back—all the way to the bottom of his coat. He doesn’t seem to care, either; just sits there, water washing over him… staring.

He’s got a red, angry-looking scar near his right ankle.

Huh.

***

Dean runs the shower so hot the bathroom is filled with steam despite the fan. He washes in between his toes and cleans his ears and brushes his teeth, and then he throws on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie and his jacket, and arms himself. Whatever he can keep concealed he puts on his person, and the rest goes into a duffle.

Going in blind probably isn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done, but he’s seriously running out of time. The jig is up, and he needs to fucking disappear, along with whatever freaky sea monster lives on the other side of the damn Sound.

So, Dean slips out of Mildred’s, and sneaks into the marina, and then steals a tiny motorboat that looks easy to steer. It takes forever to get to Cas’s place, and it’s gonna take even longer getting back in the dark, but that’s fine. Dean isn’t in a rush.

Cas seems to be, though.

He’s waiting when Dean arrives. Right on the fucking beach.

***

Dean runs the boat aground and manages to stumble out without falling into the surf, fumbling for the gun with silver bullets. He points it right at Cas—in between those big blue eyes of his—and cocks it. And Cas, well, he just looks at the piece dispassionately, turns around and walks up his porch steps and into his house, slight limp and all.

Dean hauls the boat up onto the beach, grabs his duffle and follows.

Cas’s house is bigger than it looks from the outside. It’s not huge by any means, but the porch is spacious enough for a barbecue, potted garden and picnic table, and the entrance is a mass of coats and sweaters and boots, the floor tiled until it gives way to solid wood. There’s a bathroom to Dean’s right and a staircase right in front of him, and if he looks out of the entrance and to the left, he can easily see into the open den and the kitchen.

The table is set for two, with Cas seated primly at one end, serving himself what looks like rice with bits of green stuff in it. He starts eating, casual as anything.

The whole place is a lot less… sparse than he’d thought it’d be; Cas has got a modern oven and stove, and running water, by the looks of the tap. Electricity. A small laptop on his coffee table that might double for a TV. He’s got a couch and a bunch of rugs and the entire place smells like the ocean and the forest and dinner.

Cas still hasn’t looked up.

Placing his weapon right beside the place set for him, Dean cautiously lowers himself into his assigned seat, slowly pulling the other gun from his waistband and keeping it in the space between his spread legs.

Cas keeps eating.

“Did you kill that man or not?”

It’s this question, after a good ten minutes of silence, that has Cas stop, carefully putting down his spoon and wiping at his mouth with a stained cloth napkin. When he finally looks up from his plate, a frown hangs over the challenge in his eyes. He looks… a little feral—like he knows Dean is prey but is confused by how he’s approaching things; like he’s used to people being less direct. Dean shifts in his seat and his mouth quirks curiously, the frown disappearing. “You’ve already made up your mind,” Cas says. “Whether I did or not is inconsequential.” He sounds casual, but Dean knows better; every word coming out of his mouth is measured. Careful.

Those freaky blue eyes are staring right at him, now, unblinking and calculating in a way that makes Dean feel like he’s being taken apart from the inside out and examined for parts. He’s embarrassed by the way Cas’s gaze pins him to his seat and is mortified by the near inaudible breath of relief that follows when the dude finally looks away. Cas hears it, too, judging by the way he leans back in his chair. “I was wondering when you’d finally pay me a visit,” he says. “This table has been set for three days.”

The idea that this guy has been waiting for him makes Dean’s skin crawl, but he clenches his jaw and forces himself to stare back. If he’d been thinking about touching his food, he sure as hell ain’t doing it, now. “Look, buddy, I don’t know what you are, but I think we can cut the bullshit, right? You know my name ain’t David Page.”

Cas’s gaze keeps on going, steady as anything, but something in his eyes changes. Turns sharper. One of his brows twitches and Dean thinks, _gotcha_. The sooner he can get out of this creepy house, the better. He leans forward, one hand moving to the gun in his jacket while the other rests casually on the table. The minute they both hear the click of the safety turn off, understanding washes across Cas’s face. “There we go,” Dean says. “I’m Dean Winchester. That name mean anything to you? Winchester?”

Cas doesn’t move, but he doesn’t tense up, either. He just stares some more.

“…I’m sure it does,” Dean continues. “And I’m sure you know what happens when things like you come across people like me.”

Where normally dropping the act at least speeds the process up a little, Cas looks so relaxed that Dean is thrown for a bit of a loop—he sits in his rickety wooden chair, doing his creepy staring thing until he gets up to bring his empty plate to the sink. On his own rickety chair, Dean is tensed to high fucking heaven. The wind howls outside.

“Dean Winchester,” Cas says, turning and leaning back against the counter. He grabs a nautical-themed dish towel and drapes it over his shoulder casual as anything. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of you, but I can assure you that I have never nor will I ever harm any member of the community.”

“But you admit you’re a monster. You admit you killed Dick Roman; he was an outsider.”

Castiel’s face finally changes, then, his dark brows meeting in a frown. “A monster,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. He shakes his head. “You should go—another fifteen minutes and you won’t be able to make your way home.”

Dean glares with a lot more confidence than he feels. “I’m not leaving here until you’re a smear on the floor, asshole.” He doesn’t make the first move, though. Not when he doesn’t even know what he’s up against. He’s armed to the teeth, so he’s pretty sure he can take whatever Cas throws at him, but… Dean watches helplessly as Castiel goes to a cupboard, gets out a blanket and pillow and sets them on the couch. His smile, while a helluva lot less sharp, is no less disconcerting when he straightens.

“…Then I fear you will be waiting a very long time,” he says. “Sleep well, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t watch Castiel climb the stairs; he tears out of the house and down to the beach, watching the water roil and the dark clouds above his head begin to spit water. He knows when he’s been beat, he thinks, pushing the boat out and hopping on just in time to soak himself from the knees down. _Fuck_. Whatever. He’ll just call it a night and come back with a lead. That’s fine. Dean’s hunted old, smart things before. He can handle it.

He can.

***

_~~grindylow~~ _

_sea lion = Dobhar-chú?? (dog-otter hybrid. bigger? on land?)  
Attractive: kelpie (horse (?????))_

_~~Akhlut~~ _

_qalupalik: Inuit legend… up north?? geographical connection???_

_Mishipeshu = god = calm and cocky demeanor. old. head and paws of giant black panther and covered in scales. underworld being, underwater panther. dark hair. bright eyes._

Dean’s fucking tired of this. His eyes hurt, his back is sore, and he’s getting _nowhere_. What he’s scrounged up from Native lore is just—pretty much a dead end; there’s still nothing substantial about any of it in books or on the internet, so. That’s great. And all the other shit just… nothing works. There’s no fucking monster that makes that kinda bite.

Dean frowns.

 _Sea lion_.

***

Dean only needs to read how to kill it before he’s gathering his shit and racing towards the Impala. Fuckin’ stupid. Of course. Of _course._ Cas is a goddamn selkie. The bite, the isolation, the coat… a little weird that he’s alone, that he’s human most of the time—lore says that selkies are pretty much just seals, they live in pods in the ocean except for when they come on land once every year or month or ninth week and seduce humans—but the rest of it fits pretty perfect. Lore’s wrong a lot of time.

It also says selkies are peaceful.

Dean loads his gun with silver bullets and slips a silver knife into his waistband. He shuts Baby’s trunk and heads for the marina. He can steal the same boat; she was a peach last time.

Fuck, he can’t _wait_.

***

Dean has time to see the wave crest out of the corner of his eye—big and dark, glittering in the moonlight like the beady eyes of some insatiable hungry thing—before it’s slamming into the boat and washing over it an endless amount of freezing, salty white water slippery and strong and Dean’s swept away like it’s nothing.

He slams into the water proper, muscles seizing with how fucking cold it is—pins and needles, breath punched out of him but he can’t breathe _in_ too much cold too much water the ocean has him in a vice grip clothes heavy dragging dragging _dragging_ him gasping choking can’t move help—

 _Help_.

***

His breath comes in short spurts, misting in the air of the cavern despite the fact that it isn’t cold. It isn’t anything; not hot, not cold—the water up to his waist feels like resistance as he walks, but there’s no temperature. It’s just… soup. Dark, creepy soup, almost as dark as the space above the water but not quite. Enough to see by, though it’s dim. Dean squints, trying to make out anything useful.

His feet are bare in what feels like muddy sand, and there’s no current to tell him which way the water’s going. He feels stuck, he thinks, but not in any way that’s urgent or scary… just stuck. No way out.

“Dean?”

Dean whirls around.

The woman standing six feet from him is glowing a little; enough to throw a smattering of blue light across the lower ceiling of the cavern. She’s beautiful; wearing a white nightgown and smiling widely, strands of blonde hair falling in her face.

 _Mom_.

He doesn’t speak, but she hears him anyway, smile turning into a huge grin as she wades towards him. Her arms, extended to wrap around him, feel like nothing but Dean doesn’t care. He buries his face in her neck and clutches her nightgown and it’s nothing she’s nothing but she shushes him like she used to; a faint whisper in his ear, a hand through his hair, and he _feels_ that and she pulls back and cradles his face in her hands and she’s radiant.

“Look at you,” she breathes. “All grown up.”

“Mom.” His hand drifts up, covering hers.

They’re wet.

He becomes suddenly, terrifyingly aware of the water, climbing up, steady steady, like a slowly filling glass. It’s up to his chest, now. “Mom,” he says, more urgently. “We gotta—”

She shakes her head. The water’s coming faster, but he can’t tell from where. “You have to go back, baby,” she murmurs.

Up to his neck. Was the cavern ceiling always so close?

“What? No—Mom, I—”

Covering his nose.

_I love you._

Over his head.

It’s violent, all of sudden; a rush of water buffeting him against the cavern walls. He loses grip on Mom’s hand, trying like hell to get to air so he can dive down and find her. But it’s like the water is darker than before, and when a huge wave throws him against the ceiling, something in his chest cracks.

_Mom._

***

“Come on come on come on.”

Castiel presses his entire weight to the hunter’s chest, throwing himself into compressions. Head tipped to the side, Dean Winchester does little more than flop around lifelessly with the motion, covered in water and sand with the surf lapping at his shoes. There are handprints on his chest, his mouth painted in a disturbing halo of red where Cas is trying to breathe life back into his lungs.

It’s hard when he’s weak from the change; pelt sloughed off too quickly, tossed carelessly up the beach as he, slippery with blood and viscera, threw himself at the man’s side. He can barely feel the sting of his turn; forcing himself back into a human was always a painful, violent affair, but especially so, now.

“Wake up, you stubborn ass. _Wake up_!” 

He feels a sickening _crack_ beneath his palms as he uses his momentum to throw his weight more effectively, ignoring the tremble in his arms and the breathlessness in his own chest. He is a smudge of red on a grey beach—a bare and bloody wild thing living in-between, vulnerable and isolated, punished, and here he is doing it all over again.

Hunched over a man who wants him dead.

No sooner does the thought cross his mind that Dean Winchester pitches to the side and vomits, expelling a truly incredible amount of sea water. His green eyes roll in his head as he follows his own momentum, curling around Cas’s body, shoulder digging into his groin. He seizes and gasps with the aftershocks of being ripped from the knife’s edge of death, and Castiel holds him fast. “Thank the mother,” he pants, letting his hand cup the back of Dean’s skull. He curls over Dean’s heaving form. “Thank you.”

The hunter lolls to the side, eyes fluttering as he clearly tries to keep them open, despite what must be a bone-deep exhaustion pulling him under. “M-Mom?” he croaks, throat raw. “ _Mom_.”

Castiel hushes him, uncaring of the red smear he leaves behind has he runs a shaking hand through the hair plastered on Dean’s forehead. He seems to quiet at that, though continues to make soft, distressed noises as he tries to curl into himself.

Castiel takes one look at Dean’s blue lips and thinks he must be truly as insane as everyone says. Heaving the heavy, water-logged body towards him, he drags Dean up the beach until he can wrap him in his pelt. Though the look of him suggests he is too weak for much right now, every year Cas has spent alone has him looking anxiously down at his spotted second skin as if expecting the unconscious hunter to grab it and run down the beach.

It takes a handful of tries to gather Dean and the pelt in his arms before he stumbles home. For all his boyish good looks, Dean is dense; made of muscle, with the broad frame of a soldier hidden under that over-sized leather jacket. He’s a physical threat.

Hitting a patch of soft sand, Cas feels his footing begin to slip, clutching Dean tightly to his chest as he tries not to overbalance. He wishes the change to two legs didn’t weaken him. He wishes he didn’t have to change at all.

Getting them up the stairs is an ordeal—bumped and bruised, Castiel smears blood and sand over his wall and banister before depositing Dean on his bed. His breath quickens in unconsciousness and Castiel is suddenly and aggressively reminded of the _come on come on **crack**_ beneath his hands. He’s more gentle after that, taking care of his ribs as he strips him bare and moves him to the middle of the bed. There is already purple blooming near his sternum on the right side.

Once the man trying to kill him is buried beneath every blanket and comforter he owns, Castiel drags in the space heater. Only when he’s certain it’s making the ticking sound that signifies it’s working (not to be confused with the ticking sound that occurs right before it decides to catch fire), Cas snatches his seal skin and allows himself a brief shower. Door open, to better keep an eye on his unexpected guest.

Dean has not moved an inch by the time he emerges. Nor does he as Castiel dresses. Tossing his washed pelt behind him should he need to defend it, Cas approaches the bed cautiously. “Dean?” Though he stretches out a hand, Castiel remains tensed and ready for a fight. There is nothing, however, when the pads of his calloused fingers whisper across the stubble of a freckled jaw. He’s freezing.

Frowning, Cas carefully fits his entire rough palm to Dean’s cheek, pulling away as if burned as the hunter tries to nuzzle into its warmth. Though he knows it’s silly, Castiel must be cautious here; for the admittedly scant experience he’s had with humans in his home, the strangers he’s taken to bed have been willing and ignorant of his true nature; never has a human been so unaware and vulnerable, nor so dangerous.

Dean Winchester possesses a sharp intellect, but his bravery and stubbornness make him reckless. He fights like a man with nothing to lose, which is surprising; observation had Cas estimating they were the same age, but this close he sees that Dean is most likely a handful of years younger than him. Hesitantly, he runs a hand through the slowly drying hair, mouth ticking up in a shadow of a smile as his patient sighs. Whatever the story is, Castiel will never know it; they are not friends—they are not even acquaintances. Within the next few weeks one of them will be dead.

This is the way of things.

***

Consciousness comes at him in a rush such that when Dean is thrown back into the waking world, he pitches over the side of the bed, emptying what little is in his stomach in the very well-placed bucket by the bed. Each breath is agony, and Dean hisses as he looks down at his chest, frowning at the green paste painted over the worst of his bruises. His throat feels raw and he can barely breathe through his nose. He struggles to remember something— _anything_ —of what happened between… between the library and the boat and wherever here is.

God, there was—the boat… flipped? He got knocked over the side, and then there was his Mom— _not real_ , Dean thinks frantically. His eyes dart around the room, discarding the boho-granny décor in favour of trying to—window. He needs to get to the window. Pushing through the pain that comes with moving, he grunts, the softness of the bed not helping any—

The bed.

The bed is soft.

The _sheets_ are soft.

The hooks of anxiety and panic dig deep into Dean’s skin, causing his heart to seize in his chest. Naked; he’s naked in a strange bed and he can’t—can’t remember anything. Shoving the panic loop to the back of his mind, Dean pushes off the bed and makes for the glass. _Please be a nice old lady please be a nice old lady_.

But Dean’s life isn’t a fairytale, and that’s Cas’s boat moored offshore.

There’s adrenaline, now, making him feel stronger than it is. He stumbles around the room on steadier legs, cursing his heavy footsteps as his heart sinks and his blood races and he frantically looks around the room for literally anything that could be used as a weapon.

It’s a last resort to smash the glass of water on the bedside table.

He’s bleeding steadily from his hand—the thing trembling finely as he holds it out in front of him. He reaches for a pair of sweatpants thrown over a corner chair, swallowing every wave of sharp, stabbing pain as he twists into them until he’s practically dizzy with it. Half-dressed and aware of all the commotion he’s made, Dean finally allows himself to take stock of his body: ribs fucked to hell, hurts to breathe, body fuckin’… tingling and achy (hypothermia?). But nothing else, nothing violating. No weird pains. No bitemarks. No hickeys. The bruises he does have don’t look finger-shaped.

Ears pricked, Dean can hear shuffling elsewhere in the house— _downstairs this is the second floor fuck fuck fuck_. He adjusts his stance, breathing shallow and shaky in an attempt to project his airway and ribs as he keeps his weapon trained on the door, eyes darting around the room for something else, some kinda clue, some leverage, a slip up, any—

 _Bingo_.

The weakness in his legs is a little worrying—he’s been up for what? A couple minutes? And already his vision is spotting. But Dean does some more shallow breathing and shuffles over to grab the grey pelt on the bed, broken glass raised threateningly as the doorknob turns and the monster himself shoulders into the room, barefoot and dressed in worn sweats and a hole-y tee. He looks harmless, holding a tray of what looks like soup and tea, but Dean’s not an idiot. He narrows his eyes and tries to keep himself still and big and threatening.

“Oh good,” Cas says, as if Dean were not pointing a weapon at him. “You’re awake.”

“And you’re fucked.” It’s agony to talk, but Dean refuses to be cowed, even by his own body. “I have your pelt, asshole. It’s over.”

Cas raises an unimpressed brow, calmly putting the tray on the bed. Like they’re—they’re gonna sit down and have coffee and not kill each other in this room. Dean tries to breathe, but it’s a hard thing. He blinks a couple times to stop the spots. Widens his stance so he quits swaying. “You gotta stay with me, now, right? You gotta do what I say?”

Castiel considers him. “If you think I’d leave my pelt unattended anywhere near a hunter, you’re not nearly as intelligent as I took you for.”

His voice seems to come from pretty far away, but Dean refuses to faint. He fucking _refuses_.

“The tea and soup will help your throat.”

“I don’t need any help.”

Cas squints. “You would be dead if not for me.”

“I would’ve been _fine_ ,” he spits.

“False. You were on the precipice of death, and it is only by my unfaltering grace and generosity that you live.”

“I—”

Weak as he is, Dean doesn’t stand a goddamn chance as Cas steps forward and disarms him in one quick, smooth movement. Turning over the broken cup in his hand, he wraps an arm around Dean’s back and presses the pointy thing delicately against his carotid. “If I were so inclined you would owe me a blood debt, so you are very _very_ lucky that I am no traditionalist. What I will take as payment, however, is your respect.” He leans in even further, practically nose-to-nose. “Do you understand?”

Dean’s heart is racing a fuckin’ mile a minute, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “F-Fuck you.”

“Good.” When Castiel smiles, it’s a small, sharp thing. Dean wants the wipe it right off his stupid fucking face. Mortifyingly, he sways a little, reaching out to the dresser for balance. By some miracle, Cas doesn’t mention this. He motions to the tray, instead. “Get in bed. Eat your soup. I’ll be back to help with your hand.”

Dean glowers at him. “You can’t keep me here!” he throws at the selkie’s retreating back.

Cas pauses in the doorway. “I’m not human, Dean, and so I am not in the habit of keeping prisoners. You’re free to leave whenever you wish.”

It’s lights out, after that.

***

Everything is hot and cold; the heat of the blankets, the food… all in stark, painful contrast to the coldness of the air and whatever is inside him. It leaches all the warmth from him no matter what his skin says. He’s tired. He’s _tired_.

“Dean, you need to drink.”

Dean weakly turns away, shaking his sore head. He can’t — is that Sam? Sam came from Stanford. “Sammy,” he mumbles. “Sammy, s’cold.”

A beat.

“…I know, but you have to drink.”

“Shouldna come. Not—not f’r me.”

He takes a pitiful mouthful of broth, sighing at the warmth that soothes his throat and blazes down to his stomach. He thinks Sammy says something else, but he can’t be sure. Just squeezes his hand hard as he can and hopes he gets the message.

 _Thank you for coming back_.

***

Everything hurts.

His nose, his throat, his chest; there’s a sharp kind of pain there that lets Dean know he’s fucked himself up real good. Paired with the sluggishness of his limbs, it’s hard to do anything but shift around, but that makes his ribs hurt like a _bitch_ —

“Dean?”

Dean fists the blankets as Cas’s messy, dark head pops up from whatever the fuck he was doing on the floor. There are bags under his eyes. It brings out the blue. _Pretty_. Dean frowns; fuck, he’s tired. Everything feels unreal soft around the edges. What time is it?

Cas takes a tentative step towards the bed and Dean’s full-body flinch is instinctual. He hisses in pain and stress up at the ceiling, the pain scrambling his thoughts even further. He knows Cas is dangerous. He knows. He needs to—but he’s _so damn tired._

“Be still,” Cas says, like he’s some kind for Victorian nursemaid. “You can’t—you mustn’t move so much.” He looks a little anxious, Dean struggles to think. And the naked worry on his face is… nice. Makes it handsome. Human. Been a while since anyone looked at him like that.

Dean bits his lip. Something big and tight pulls at his insides and his eyes well up.

“Oh,” Cas says haltingly, eyes wide with panic, now. “Don’t—do that.” He tries for a smile Dean can barely see, not that that matters; he’s tired and he hurts and he wants his dead mom and runaway brother and home, wherever the fuck that is. “It’ll be alright,” Cas is saying carefully. “You just… you’ve hurt yourself. You need to rest.”

Dean doesn’t hear anything else.

***

The morning is all thunderstorms and creaking floorboards.

The bed is fucking heaven; laden with worn-soft sheets and blankets and pillows, and the mattress feels like a cloud. Smells nice, too. Like rain and forest and the ocean—

 _ColdchokingdrowingMomSam_ —

Cas.

Dean forces his eyes open and frowns at the plain white ceiling and its accompanying fan, trying to move up onto his elbows to look around. He’s sore, though, and his ribs hurt, and he… knows this already. Because the boat flipped and the selkie saved him and then he gave him soup and tea despite Dean’s threats. Moving still hurts like a bitch, but you don’t get to be a hunter without sucking up a couple broken ribs. He holds his breath and watches Cas start to fold up what looks like a nest of more blankets and pillows on the floor. He doesn’t look so scary, wearing faded boxers and a threadbare t-shirt, his hair sticking up every which way. He looks like a regular dude in need of coffee.

But then he turns those baby blues right on Dean and there’s nothing human about him.

The full body flinch feels like déjà vu, and Dean hisses. “Ow. Fuck.” His voice is hoarse.

“Ah…” Castiel says, awkwardly. Nervously. Like he isn’t sure what to do now that Dean is totally conscious. “Good morning,” is what he finally decides on. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Dean croaks. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Cas’s face shutters; all at once, the uncertainty gone. “You must be tired.”

Dean frowns. “I just woke up,” he says carefully.

“Hungry, then. I’ll—”

“Why’d you save me?”

It’s an easy question, but none of this makes any sense. Dean should be dead right now, or fighting for his life… not trying to figure out what the fuck Cas thinks he’s doing. This isn’t how this works. They fight, one or both of them die, the world keeps turning. That’s the job. That’s the _life_.

“…Because,” Cas shrugs, some of that earnestness leaching back into his shoulders. He refuses to make eye-contact. “You were dying.”

There’s something vulnerable in his voice that burrows right into all the corners of Dean’s heart. He recognizes it. Feels it every time he kills something young and hungry that didn’t know any better, or made a mistake, or—

Dean fists the blankets. “So?” he says roughly. “I—” Swallows thickly. Frowns. This doesn’t feel like an act, but it could be. Could be a ploy to get Dean to let his guard down and end up like Dick Roman. “I’m gonna kill you, so.”

“Yes, well.” Cas clears his throat. A humourless smile slashes his face in two, ugly and cold and confusing. Dean feels the hair on his arms stand on end. “Call it a bout of morality-driven insanity; I want a fair fight if we’re to decide who comes out of this alive. Letting you die felt like cheating.”

The words sound brittle and tired, and Dean frowns harder. “Is that what you gave Dick Roman?” he demands. “A fair fight?”

Cas sighs. “You should rest, Dean.”

“Cas. Wait, Cas, why won’t you—”

Cas takes his blankets and walks out of the room.

***

It’s a Dread Pirate Roberts situation.

Every morning, Dean wakes up to a tray of breakfast on the nightstand with strict instructions to stay in bed. At some point, Cas comes in to turn down the heater and collect the tray, and then he’s back downstairs doing god-knows-what. Dean knows the guy has a job, so he isn’t sure how he’s been swinging the time off; he bangs around in the kitchen and makes over-salted fish stews and clam chowders, and serves them with a chunk of under-baked fresh bread for lunch and dinner.

Dean’s glad for it. Sure, there are times Cas has to be in the bedroom—to grab his clothes, to check on Dean’s ribs and bring him food and water… but they generally don’t see each other, and they definitely don’t talk. Despite the fact that Dean wants to get the hell out of dodge, if he goes back to his dad without having killed the selkie, broken ribs are the least of his problems.

So, Dean allows himself to be taken care of and bides his time. He eats the over-salted soup, and drinks the proffered water, and watches from the bedroom window as Cas walks up and down the beach for hours on end until he sits down in the surf, staring. He’s weird and quiet and _weird_ , and at the end of every day, right after he’s checked his ribs and before leaving the room, Cas turns around and looks at him like… something.

_Sleep well, Dean, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning._

…But eight mornings come and go, and Dean’s as alive as he’s ever been.

He can move now; slow, but pretty easy. He doesn’t feel like he’s gonna puncture a lung. If Dean’s being honest, he’s driven with worse—probably coulda hopped right into Baby after the fever passed—but at this point, he can definitely swing a machete and fire a gun, so whatever was holding him back from rolling out of bed ain’t there anymore.

Dean buries his face into Cas’s soft, wash-worn sheets and wonders just how fucked up you have to be to start thinking of enforced-bed-rest-by-monster as a kind of vacation. Something clangs from downstairs, then thumps, and muffled cursing sounds through the door. Dean groans. So much for sleeping in.

Cas shoulders into the room about ten minutes later, holding an old baking sheet piled high with toast and fruit and two precariously perched, large mugs. From experience, Dean knows that the toast is burnt and the coffee’s lukewarm. Cas sets the sheet down on the edge of the bed and immediately takes his mug, inhaling deeply. “Cold again, huh?” Dean mutters, eyeing his own despondently.

Cas doesn’t answer, taking a big gulp of his unholy drink and sighing like it’s friggin’ mana. He disappears into the bathroom and Dean picks up a piece of burnt toast with a grimace. He wonders how hard he’ll have to argue for Cas to let him go downstairs and make them some real food.

…Which is fucking stupid to even consider, because Dean needs to kill the guy and get back to his real life.

Cas steps out of the bathroom and bangs down the stairs, and the lack of mug in his hands means he left it on the counter again. Dean wonders if he’s an ungraceful slob because he’s literally a fish out of water, or if that’s just who he is.

The front door opens and slams shut, and Dean slumps back onto the bed with a sigh.

He should probably get the fuck out of here.

***

Dean makes excuses for seven days.

Seven days of waking up to cold coffee and burnt toast. Seven days of listening to Cas bang around the house. Seven days of communicating in clipped sentences and nods. It’s not that they hate each other, Dean thinks—Cas’s brand of hands-off coddling is too weird for anything other than a strong sense of duty and kindness. It’s just… the circumstances; like a freaking lion and gazelle living under the same roof.

And after a week of lazing around in bed and being (badly) waited on, Dean’s run out of excuses.

He decides to do it outside; no point in getting the house all fucked up, and this way it can be blamed on an animal or a psycho killer or something. Cas usually goes out on a walk for exactly forty-seven minutes, and though Dean isn’t totally sure _where_ , he’s been in and out of woods his entire life. Ganking him with a couple busted ribs won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible. Far as Dean knows, all the weird selkie stuff only applies to the water.

So when Cas slams the door after leaving his mug on the bathroom counter, Dean grabs a knife from the butcher’s block and sneaks out after him.

He regrets leaving his shoes behind about a minute in.

He regrets not taking a sweater about a minute after that.

It’s misting today, because it always seems to be in this god forsaken place; clouds roll in off the pacific and get caught in the islands and inlets, making visibility tough and staying warm tougher. Dean carefully climbs over branches and hides behind the huge, mossy trunks of trees. He’s pretty sure his feet are bleeding. Maybe. Dean spares a quick look down to check.

…And loses sight of Cas.

Clenching his jaw, he holds the knife on the offense, listening closely to the forest around him. Something shifts and he feels the air on his arms stand on end. The back of his neck prickles.

And something jumps on his back.

It’s huge and heavy, and has claws in a twist of events Dean wasn’t expecting. He barely has time to raise his arm over his head before teeth are sinking into it, biting down as if to crush the bone. It smells like blood and gore and death and there’s a sandpaper tongue and yellow fur and Dean has the insane thought of _lion?_ before realizing _cougar_ and hopes his broken ribs puncture a lung before the thing starts eating him.

And then it stops.

Dean’s vision is spotting, but adrenaline is goddamn beautiful thing and he’s up and scrambling away in time to see a grey ball of fur wrapped around animal’s back, holding on for dear life. It takes a couple seconds too long to realize that the furball is _Cas_ and he’s _biting its ear_ —and then he’s thrown off it’s back and is landing in a roll onto his own dirty, bare feet. The cougar growls. Cas snarls back. Moves slowly in front of Dean.

And then Dean watches the cougar slink off.

The sound that leaves Dean’s chest is some weird high-pitched giggle-wheeze hybrid. His chewed up arm feels sticky, and his ribs are killing him, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying but he thinks what comes out is: _pretty nice timing, Cas._

“What were you _thinking_?”

There’s something about the way Cas rounds on him, all righteous fury and indignation, that has Dean snap back into his body. Everything fucking _hurts_ , and Cas is glaring down at him like he doesn’t know what to do with him. Barefoot and muddy in the clearing like this, all scratched up, with his hair a goddamn mess and the fog all around him, he looks wild. Dangerous.

And between the cold and the adrenaline, Dean doesn’t have an ounce of self-preservation left in him. “Fuck you, Cas,” he says cheerily. “I can take care of myself.”

Cas looks murderous.

“Right, how silly of me,” he says. “You had all of that totally handled. It was all under control!”

“Damn right.”

“You—you—” Cas spits a harsh string of harsh syllables onto the ground between them and Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t understand you! Were you going to knife me in the middle of the woods? How, exactly? You thought I’d just politely let you stab me in the back?”

“Hey, screw you, Cas—”

“No, screw _you_.” Cas turns and picks up the knife from where it had fallen into the dirt. “You move like a bull in a china shop. Why are you still here?” Dean watches him warily. “You want to kill me? Be done with it.” He grabs Dean’s hand in his own and wraps them both around the handle of the knife, hauling the blade until it’s poised to slice neatly between his ribs.

His eyes are bright blue against the flush of his skin, turning glassy the tighter he grips the knife. His teeth are clenched and his whole body heaves with every breath he takes and Dean…

…Dean can’t do it. “No,” he says, spitting the words with a kind of venom he doesn’t feel. “You said a fair fuckin’ fight. What, suddenly none of the matters anymore?” The knife handle digs into his palm. “Huh, Cas? You pussying out?”

Cas’s lip curls and he bares his teeth, pressing the blade more insistently to his own skin. “I’m tired,” he bites out. His big blue eyes are narrowed in a glare that has Dean almost pissing himself, but he forces himself to volley back.

“Yeah? You want a medal?” Their joined hands are shaking in their white-knuckled grip. “Grow the fuck up, princess. We’re all tired.” Wrenching the knife away, Dean stabs it viciously into the dirt. “I ain’t gonna kill you unless it’s a fair fight. I don’t put down animals for the hell of it.”

He’s slammed down into the dirt before he can even realize what’s happening, broad, calloused hands pressed against his shoulders as the breath is forced from his lungs. Cas is wound tight enough to snap, something ruthless and wild just behind his eyes, and Dean sees his own entire shitty, meaningless life pass before him. It feels like they’re suspended there for a lifetime—like all the bullshit falls away and they’re just two desperate, injured things and a hummingbird heart. Angry. Waiting.

Cas gives him one last hard shove and storms off.

Dean lets himself sink into the dirt and doesn’t cry.

 _Fuck_.

***

It takes a stupid amount of time to pull himself together, and even longer to find his way back to the cabin. He’s weak and tired and wet, and he as he finally stumbles onto Cas’s godforsaken beach he wonders what the fuck the point even is. He fucked up. Royally. When Dad eventually finds out about this—because he will, he always does—well.

Dean would rather take his chances with the cougar.

Cas is standing in the water and turns when he hears Dean’s less-than-graceful trek across the sand. His eye-roll is basically audible, and Dean flips him the bird, something vicious and vengeful squeezing at his lungs. He narrowly avoids punching Cas’s stupid face and limps up the steps and into the house. It won’t be easy to patch himself up, but he’s done worse. Plus, selkie biology means the fucker has a full med-grade kit in his upstairs bathroom. Stitching with surgical thread? A goddamn luxury.

Dean doesn’t come out of the bedroom for the rest of the day.

Cas leaves his food outside the door.

It’s raw fish and seaweed rice because it always is, and as Dean pushes the stuff around his plate he wonders, for the millionth time, what the hell he’s still doing in a selkie’s house. He’s got empty motel rooms with his name on them; mouldy carpets, rusting bathrooms, sheets starched to hell and primed for a quick fuck—all the glitz and glamour of the job and then some, because Sam won’t take his calls and Dad’s been on the warpath for months.

“Shit!” Cas is banging around downstairs, huffing like he’s the big bad wolf, and Dean lies back on the ugly-ass bedspread and falls asleep.

***

Dean is sitting on the couch when the door opens, squeaking on its dumb, rusty hinges. Cas stomps in like he always does, shuffling around in the entrance, wiping his feet on the carpet. He doesn’t seem to know how to move around without being heard from the goddamn mainland. Rolling his eyes, Dean settles back into the cushions and closes his eyes, deliberately slowing his breath.

Cas thumps in a couple minutes later.

“I know you’re awake,” he sighs, dumping something at Dean’s feet.

Cautiously, Dean opens one eye.

That’s his bag.

Why’s his bag here?

He frowns and pretends to blink awake, ignoring Cas’s unimpressed snort as the other guy toes the duffle towards him. “I arranged it with Mildred,” he says. “I assumed you were tired of my hand-me-downs.”

Dean shifts in his borrowed clothes. Everything of Cas’s is just a little on the big side, the material faded and worn soft and thin by a lifetime of washes. It’ll be nice to have his own stuff back. “Right, yeah.” He wonders if this is a peace-offering, if this is Cas trying to apologize for being a moody, bitchy asshole for the past few days. Ever since the cougar incident—

Cas scoffs and makes for the kitchen, muttering under his breath.

So much for that idea.

Dean makes a hasty retreat to the bedroom. He looks through his duffle to make sure all his crappy belongings are accounted for, and heavily debates the pros and cons of changing into his own clothes. Then, he waits. For dinner, maybe. Or morning. Hell, maybe he waits for some all powerful force to strike him down where he stands because he needs to get the fuck away from here and he can’t seem to get his ass in gear to leave.

Rubbing his shoulder against Cas’s ugly blankets, he gives a covert sniff of the material. It’s clove and cedar and ocean, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Takes a deep breath. Changes into a t-shirt and jeans.

That’s when the music starts.

It’s dark out, so it’s gotta be a little late, at least; but Cas didn’t knock on the door so there’s no dinner. Dean stares at the ceiling until whatever godawful song he’s playing reaches a fever pitch, the thing loud and crackling and it takes Dean a second to really _listen_ but he’s pretty sure that’s Enya. _Enya_.

The selkie’s playing Enya.

And it’s one thing to save Dean’s life twice and house him and feed him and clothe him, but it’s a total _other_ to play offensive music loud enough to make the goddamn house shake. Cas’s seal pals are probably halfway to Greenland by now ‘cause of the racket.

Dean clenches his jaw and goes downstairs.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like Cas is gonna be receptive to any kind of conversation, especially one that involves lowering the auditory torture. Mostly ‘cause the dude’s glaring at nothing with a bottle of what looks like moonshine hanging from his fist. Dean softens his steps. Hunches his shoulders. Waits.

If there’s one thing he knows how to deal with, it’s angry drunks.

Cas eventually speaks, calm and furious and measured. “He was violent,” he says, eyes trained in the middle distance, jaw clenched. His voice is so low Dean can barely hear him. “Richard Roman; he stepped on the dock as if he were the king of it, after everyone had been sprayed with water cannons.” The bottle comes up and Cas takes a long pull. “I wanted to hurt him. I made my excuses; left, changed, dragged him under. I hadn’t realized I’d broken his bones; when I let go… he couldn’t swim. Then I left him.” His shoulders roll like he’s remembering the event, and despite the slight furrow of his brow, he’s steel—unmoving, blank. Dean is suddenly keenly aware that the thing in front of him is a monster. “…I’m not sorry,” Cas continues casually. “That man liked to make the land hurt, and he didn’t care who or what he destroyed in the process. He liked suffering. All suffering. He encouraged it.” A shrug. “Apt, then, that he suffered as he drowned.”

He takes another drink, and Dean eyes him warily. “Not that I’m not _loving_ confession time but, uh…” Dean trails off licking his lips. “Why are you telling me this?”

Cas grins at the bottle in his hand. “Either you’ll kill me or you won’t, right?” he says. “I thought ‘spilling the beans’ might get you to make your decision more quickly.” He frowns. “I’d like my bed back.”

There’s something surreal about watching a guy do _literal_ air quotes after a murder confession. Add that to the moping about his bed and Dean is having a hard time remembering why he was worried in the first place. “Huh,” he says, careful not to think about what he’s about to do. “Well, uh, I always do my best thinking after a couple drinks so…”

Cas watches Dean’s hand wrap around the end of the bottle like he’s confused and vaguely offended before finally getting with the program and handing it over. He slumps a little, waving his hand with all the authority of a King. “By all means.”

Dean takes a pull and his eyes water. _Fuck._

…Yep, that’s moonshine.

***

Dean wakes to a pounding headache and a serious case of cotton mouth. He groans, brows furrowed at the light spilling over his closed eyelids. Rubs his cheek against the pillow with a heaving sigh. The room’s warmer than it usually is, which is a pretty nice change—but he needs a cup of coffee and some painkillers _stat_. Dean forces his eyes open, frowning more deeply as there’s a groan and a sigh from under his head. The first thing he’s immediately aware of is the fact that he’s draped over a shirtless Cas. The second is he feels like death dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Ugh.

Wait, what the _fuck_ —

Dean wakes all at once, adrenaline shooting down to his limbs as he jumps like a scared friggin’ cat, throwing himself from the bed, landing in a messy pile of sheets and blankets on the floor. _What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_ —

“Stop stealing the blankets,” Cas grumbles.

And _wow_ , yeah, nope—that’s. Ha. Dean’s pretty sure all his flailing is just tangling him up worse, the sheets digging into his sides and around his arms it’s like quicksand or tar or—

Cas’s head pops out from side of the mattress, his hair sticking out in tufts and floofs like a particularly dysfunctional bird’s nest. He squints like he’s having trouble understand what he’s seeing, and he looks—a little cute, if Dean’s being totally honest with himself, which is an _off-limits thought_ , and also, y’know, deeply fucked up because the dude is a freaking _murdering monster man_ —

Which is totally, 100%, without a doubt why Dean fights out of the blankets, crawls back until he hits the wall and says, _super calmly_ : “HUNT!”

Cas’s head tilts to the side.

Dean wants to set the house on fire with both of them in it.

“I mean.” He clears his throat. “I—have a hunt. Right now.”

Cas’s squint intensifies.

“I just got a call.”

More squinting. “…Now?” his voice is rough and low and Dean just barely manages to force down a shiver. _Nope_. _Nopenopenopenopenope_. Whatever the fuck happened last night to have them both down to their boxers is definitely not hot or intriguing because it’s messed up and wrong and the half-naked fish-man is totally Not An Option, because he is also a murderer, and a _fish-man_ , a-and—

“Yep!” Dean’s voice is thin and high and he almost kills himself stumbling into his jeans. Fuck. No, these are Cas’s jeans— _Jesus._ “Y’know how it is. Duty calls,” he grunts, jumping into the right pants. He pulls on his shirt and very pointedly does not notice Cas struggling to keep his eyes open like a particularly cute but disgruntled bird. “No rest for the wicked, all that fun stuff.”

Cas hums dispassionately. 

“Seriously, man, this was, uh… yeah. But,” Dean motions downstairs. “I really gotta go.”

“Mm.”

“I need a lift back to town.”

“Mmhm.”

“ _Now_.”

Cas groans like he’s being tortured but rolls himself out of bed and stumbles down the stairs, barefoot and scratching at his belly. Instead of heading for the door, Dean hears him veer right into the kitchen. Seconds later, the dulcet, grinding tones of his ancient coffee-maker echo through the house.

Dean rolls his eyes. It takes less than a minute for him to pack up all his shit, and then he’s downstairs pulling on his boots and jacket. “Hey Cas!” he yells. “Move it or friggin’ lose it!”

It takes Cas ten more minutes to emerge from the house, and by then he’s got a hoodie covering his torso and a steaming travel mug in his hands. He’s still, to Dean’s total befuddlement, barefoot and in his boxers.

“Took you long enough.”

Cas doesn’t say a word.

He drives like a goddamn maniac, which is probably payback for Dean forcing him out of bed at the asscrack of dawn, but the nausea and the fearing for his life is a huge distraction from Cas’s thighs… and ass, and the angry scar that draws a jagged line from his right ankle to his calf. It’s freezing, Dean feels like he’s getting sprayed by every errant wave on purpose, but all his misery does is make him wish he was back in Cas’s stupid room. He can’t remember the last time he had one of those, and—it’d been nice, being there, even if it hadn’t been his.

When they pull into the harbour, Cas doesn’t even have time to secure the boat before Dean is off it. “Uh, thanks,” he says, hitching his bag over his non-injured side and waving around vaguely. “For everything.”

Cas pauses in the process of tying his knot, looking weirdly perplexed for a guy who just unloaded his one and only passenger. “Ah, you, too.”

“Keep your nose clean. Hopefully I don’t have to see you around.”

“Right.” He sounds skeptical.

Dean nods. “Okay.” he mutters. Turns. Walks out of the marina. Doesn’t stop walking until he’s in Baby, at which point he starts her up and drives like a bat out of hell.

Well, that was a scream.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Just a quick note: I am not Indigenous, but I strongly feel that you can't set a fic in Canada, and especially in BC, without at least mentioning the nations who live here. If anyone who feels I have unfairly depicted any culture or cultural practice to please comment so I can fix my mistakes! 
> 
> I also strongly encourage anyone who doesn't know about the government and therefore the RCMP's fraught relationship with Indigenous peoples in Canada to read up on it. A really good place to start is [The Highway of Tears](https://www.highwayoftears.org/about-us/highway-of-tears).


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